


Silver and Grey

by saltnhalo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Detective Castiel (Supernatural), Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Flirting, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Reveal, M/M, Police Officer Castiel (Supernatural), Secret Identity, Sexual Tension, Superhero Dean Winchester, Vigilante Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:07:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23784400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltnhalo/pseuds/saltnhalo
Summary: Castiel has always been a by-the-book detective. For him, the law is black and white, right and wrong—until he meets the silver-tongued vigilante who proceeds to turn both his city and his life upside down, reshaping the way he sees the world.It turns out that there might be shades of grey, after all.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 50
Kudos: 313
Collections: Fandom Trumps Hate 2020





	Silver and Grey

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rocksaltandhoney](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rocksaltandhoney/gifts).



> For Morgan! Thank you for bidding on me for FTH, you are such a kind soul and I was so happy to get to write for you again. Thank you for this wonderful prompt, I hope you like this!
> 
> And to [cap](https://captainhaterade.tumblr.com/)—thank you for helping me through all my struggles and throwing around cracky fic titles with me. Titles are so fucking hard, y'all.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

Ever since he was young, Castiel had known that he wanted to be a police officer.

The idea of being the one to uphold the law had always appealed to him. Rules, regulations, the black and white of ‘this is a crime’ and the knowledge that he was keeping the city safe… that’s what led him into the profession, even from a young age. There was never any grey, and that was the way he liked it.

Until he met Dean Winchester.

~

The yellow glow of the streetlights shines off oil-slick puddles and the detailing of a car parked against the curb, as Castiel leans back against the brickwork of the bar and smokes his cigarette. He’s never been a particular fan of smoking, but when it helps him blend in, making him just another man ducking outside for a smoke break, it’s worth it. He exhales, letting the smoke curl out into the cold night air, and looks out over the empty street.

His informant had told him that the handoff would be tonight. Counterfeit bills, laundered through every shady operation in the state that law enforcement could ever hope to get their hands on. If Castiel comes back to the station tonight with an arrest and a briefcase full of phony money, he will have done his service to the community.

In the building across the street, a door opens. Instinctively, Castiel lowers his head, making sure his cap covers his eyes and the collar of his jacket is pulled high to hide his face. If he plays it right, he’ll look as though he’s just bracing against the cold, but he feels himself tense up as two men emerge from the building.

The acrid tang of smoke burns in his lungs, but it’s nothing compared to the adrenaline sparking through his body as he tells himself to _wait, don’t blow it now_ …

The men move into the alleyway beside the building, and Castiel counts _one, two, three_ after they’ve disappeared into the darkness, then pushes off the wall and follows after them. His cigarette, still-smouldering, hisses its end in a puddle as he tosses it carelessly aside.

There’s a gun at his hip, but Castiel doesn’t pull it out just yet. Instead, he sticks to the brick wall, moving slowly and keeping a low profile. He can hear the voices up ahead, and he strains to make out what they’re saying—so focused that he forgets to keep an eye on his surroundings.

“Hold it right there.”

The words come from behind him, and Castiel instantly goes still, his blood running cold. _Idiot_ , he berates himself. How could he have been so stupid as to think that there would only be two of them, here without backup?

The barrel of a gun presses against the back of his head, and Castiel closes his eyes for a moment. How the hell is he going to get out of this?

“You a cop?” the voice asks, but doesn’t give Castiel a chance to respond, just keeps talking. “You _look_ like a cop. And we don’t take too kindly to cops around here, buddy. Be a real shame if my itchy trigger finger played up right now, hm?”

Castiel’s mind is whirling, desperately trying to figure out how to get himself out of this, but he can’t. If he moves, even so much a _breathes_ wrong, this guy is going to put a bullet in the back of his head.

He’s fucked.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, dude.”

…Or maybe not.

This voice is deep and drawling, and coming from somewhere up above them. There’s a power that resonates through it, one that Castiel feels down to his bones, even if he can’t quite figure out why.

“Whuh?” the guy behind Castiel starts, but he’s quickly cut off by the second voice.

“The gun. Lower it. Now.”

Castiel almost snorts. Who the hell is going to lower his gun just because some unidentified voice told him to? Is this dude an idiot?

And then the pressure on the back of Castiel’s skull disappears.

“Good. Now turn around, and walk away.”

There’s the sound of a sneaker swivelling against the concrete, and then the heavy footfalls of someone walking back down the alley and out of earshot. Castiel’s heart is beating so hard that he can hear it pounding in his ears. What the _fuck_ just happened?

As soon as he’s sure that his unseen assailant is really gone, Castiel whips his gun out and whirls around, hands shaking against the grip as he tries to figure out where the hell that voice had come from, and how it had managed to make that man do _exactly_ what it said. He’s heard stories about people out there with capabilities beyond those of any normal human, _powers_ that Castiel couldn’t even dream of, but he’s never encountered anyone like that within his own city.

“Show yourself!” he calls out into the darkness—the men with the briefcase are probably long gone by now, but Castiel suddenly has other, slightly more pressing matters at hand.

The voice laughs, a sound that could be friendly in any other circumstance but now just bounces ominously off the brick walls of the alleyway, sending Castiel spinning in circles as he tries to pinpoint its source. “C’mon, dude, I’m the one with the magic tongue. You follow my orders, not the other way round.”

And that sets Castiel’s hackles to raising.

“I’m a _detective_ ,” he growls into the darkness, shifting his grip around his gun. “I am the _law_. You don’t get to pick and choose when you listen to my authority, no matter what _powers_ you may have—when I say show yourself, you _show yourself_.”

The voice hums, some combination of amused and unimpressed. “So if you’re the _law_ … when you told the guy with the gun not to shoot you, he was going to listen, right?”

Castiel is silent. Of course not, but he doesn’t want to have to admit that to this ghost who had saved Castiel’s life and now seems intent on rubbing it in.

“That’s what I thought.”

“Are you planning to show yourself?” Castiel snaps, desperate to regain _some_ kind of handle on this situation that has spiralled so wildly out of control. “Or are you just going to hide in the dark like a coward?”

The chuckle comes again, rich and amused as it winds its way down Castiel’s spine and all the way out to his fingertips. “I don’t think so,” the voice muses. “Maybe you’ll get lucky next time, but for now, I’ve got other asses to save. None quite as nice as yours, though, detective. I’ll catch ya round.”

His words ring off the walls of the alley, and in the few seconds it takes for them to fade away, he must be already gone, because when Castiel calls out, “Fuck you!”, there’s no answer.

~

The next time they meet, Castiel is slightly more educated.

News has been travelling around the city of the masked man with a voice like honeyed whiskey who can make anyone do anything he wants with barely more than a few words. It explains how the vigilante (a word that Castiel even says in his _head_ with disgust) had persuaded that man to let Castiel go that night, but even if he _is_ doing seemingly good deeds, it’s not his place to decide who is good and who is bad.

 _That_ job falls to the law.

And so Castiel sets out to do his job every day with renewed vigour, and a determination to bring down whoever is behind the mask and the voice, to show them that no one is above the law.

To his immense frustration, though, the effects of the masked man are _everywhere_. At least once a day, someone walks into the precinct with a slightly dazed look in their eyes and hand themselves in, confessing on the spot to their crimes. Part of Castiel wishes that getting a confession out of someone were always that easy, but the other part of him doubts.

 _What if these people have just been_ forced _to confess? What if they aren’t actually guilty?_

The masked man consumes his thoughts. Slowly, Castiel’s attention drifts away from catching the criminals roaming the streets of his city, and instead focuses solely on the man whose voice haunts his dreams every fucking night.

He’d popped up only in the last month or two, sporadically at first but then much more frequently. Not many people ever see him, but the few that have are of infinite value to Castiel.

_Male. Light skin. Roughly six foot one. Usually wears dark jeans, a black canvas jacket, and a mask covering the top half of his face._

Castiel doesn’t want to call him a superhero, because he’s _not_ , but… well, what kind of vigilante dresses like that? Aren’t they supposed to have suits?

Whatever. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that Castiel can connects the dots and manage to track this guy down—and in the last week, a pattern to his actions has emerged. Most of his reported activity has been centred around the docks, and more people have caught a proper visual of him there than anywhere else in the city.

It’s reckless, irresponsible, and downright insane, but Castiel _has_ to go down there. To try and see him for himself, if not bring him in where he can be held accountable to the _true_ power of the law.

And so, late on a Friday evening, Castiel holsters his pistol beneath his jacket and makes his way down to the docks.

It’s quiet down here—there isn’t really anyone else around, and it feels almost eerie as Castiel walks down the street alone, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling. The vigilante could be anywhere, watching him, and he wouldn’t know. Hell, he’d barely heard him make a sound the first night they’d met. Even the sound of his voice had seemed to be coming from every possible angle, everywhere and nowhere all at once.

He flexes his fingers and forcers himself to keep his hands by his sides as he presses on, down to the water’s edge where so many people have reported seeing the vigilante this week.

“Well, well, well. I was hoping you’d show up, detective.”

And there he is.

Castiel finally gets to see the man (because he’s a _man_ , not a superhero or a ghost or whatever Castiel’s brain would like him to think) for himself. He’s standing on top of the building up ahead as though he owns it, hands pushed into his pockets, his stance confident and self-assured. The reports had been right about his outfit, but somehow it’s less ridiculous when Castiel sees it in person. Something about it just _works_ for him, in the same way that the half-mask draws Castiel’s eyes to the curve of the man’s jaw and has his interest more than piqued.

He walks closer to the building, fingers twitching towards his gun but again, telling himself to _wait_.

“You were waiting for me?” he asks, but it’s less a question than a statement, because that much is pretty clear, from his words to his positioning.

His suspicion is only confirmed when the man nods. “Sure was,” he says, and even though there are yards between them, and Castiel has to tip his head back to look at him, the man’s voice sounds as though it’s coming from right next to Castiel. It circles around him—in front, left, behind, right, behind, and around again, sinking into Castiel’s skin and permeating his mind.

Suddenly, he’s reminded of the way the goon in the alley had lowered his gun without hesitation. How the criminals had all turned themselves in immediately. How the witnesses who’d visited the station had all given the _exact same_ spiel about the vigilante.

And he’s reminded of the gun he’s currently carrying in his holster.

If it really came down to it, he’s sure that a man capable of controlling people with his words could easily find some way to make Castiel hurt himself. The gun just makes it so much easier.

Maybe coming here alone was a mistake.

“What do you want with me?” he calls into the distance between them, hoping that the question will distract both himself and the vigilante. Every piece of evidence they have so far points to the man being good (or as close as a masked vigilante with superhuman powers can get, anyway), but Castiel doesn’t trust him. Not one bit.

The vigilante spreads his hands, the picture of innocence. “I just wanted to talk, detective. You keep askin’ around about me, and you sure know how to make a girl feel special, but from what I’ve heard you don’t like me very much. That true?”

Something pulls behind Castiel’s sternum—faint, but there.

“Yes,” he blurts out, without processing his response. “It’s true. I don’t like you.”

The corners of the man’s mouth pull down, and he presses his hands against his chest, as though he’s been wounded. “Ouch,” he says. “I guess that one was on me, though. Gotta be prepared for the truth.”

Castiel’s tongue tastes faintly of metal, and he worries it against his teeth for a second, then glares up at the man. “Did you really just use your powers on me?” he snaps, not having taken long to put two and two together. “I should arrest you just for attacking a police officer, not to mention all the other human rights violations you’ve committed by using your powers for this—this _vigilantism_.”

The man just laughs, loud and bold and amused. “That was only the tiniest bit of power power, detective. And you _could_ arrest me,” he acknowledges—then corrects himself. “Or—you could _try_. Dunno how far you’d get, but it’d be cute to see you give it your best shot.” He hums, then crouches down, putting his weight on one palm as he swings his legs off the edge of the roof and sits. “But if you arrested me… well, you wouldn’t get _this_.”

The promise in his tone instantly puts Castiel on edge, and now, he draws his gun. What is this man about to try to pull?

As it turns out, he need not have worried.

Because when the man yells, “Out you come, boys!”, out of the shadows walk two very familiar men. They step into the sickly glow of the streetlight and stand side by side, posture perfectly straight. There’s a glazed look in their eyes, and Castiel realises that they’re well and truly under this man’s spell.

“The money launderers,” Castiel breathes, his eyes wide. The vigilante has brought him the two men he’s been searching for these past three months—the very same ones that Castiel had lost track of the night he’d been jumped in the alleyway.

First, the vigilante had saved his life, and now, he’s doing Castiel’s job for him.

All of a sudden, there’s bitter anger and frustration bubbling up inside of Castiel’s chest.

“Why did you do this?” he growls, turning his gaze back on the man, who is still sitting there watching him with that stupid curve of a smile on his lips. “What, you’re trying to show me that you’re fucking better than me or something?”

The man barely moves, just slowly shakes his head. As though he’s fucking _amused_.

“Not at all, detective. You’re very good at your job—I’m sure you would have caught these two the night we met, if you hadn’t forgotten to check your six. No, I brought them here tonight as a…” he shrugs his shoulders thoughtfully, then leans forward, elbows resting on his thighs. “As a gift. A gesture of goodwill. I don’t like having someone as handsome as you hate me quite this much, Novak.”

 _The man knows his name_.

Even though they’ve been on an uneven playing field this whole time—Castiel against this man who can control people with his voice alone—he’s never felt so strongly outmatched as he does right now. Because there’s so much in the power of a name—especially for someone who wears his anonymity and his mask like a shield.

“I don’t want your _gift_ ,” Castiel bites out coldly, and it’s almost worth it to see the man’s lips part in surprise, just for a second.

And then the cool, cocky façade is back. “You don’t want them?” the guy echoes. “So you’re saying I should just… let them go. Release them back out into the community to keep committing crimes, until you can finally track them down again using all your _legal_ , _police-department-approved_ methods—all that red tape shit that’s the reason it took you so long to find them in the first place.”

 _Fuck_.

The guy smirks, like he knows he’s got Castiel all figured out. Because there’s no way he can just let these men walk away—even if the reason they go to prison is _because_ of the very vigilante that Castiel had sworn to take down.

Castiel wants so badly to be able to tell this man to go fuck himself… but he can’t.

No, as much as it hurts his ego, and his prise…

“Wait,” he says, the single syllable sounding almost as though it’s been punched out of him. “Don’t… I can’t let them go. They’re guilty, I know that. _I’ve_ done the proper research, I can put them behind bars through the _justice system_ , as it should be. But right now… I can’t in good conscience tell you to let them go.”

 _I’m doing the right thing_ , he tells himself, even though it feels wrong in every fibre of his being to bow to this vigilante he’s been hunting for so long.

And _fuck_ , he’s such a cocky bastard.

The man just grins and gives Castiel a casual, irreverent salute. “Off you go, boys,” he calls out to the two men who are still standing stick-straight beneath the streetlight. “Off to Detective Novak’s precinct with you. Or can I call you Castiel?” he asks as he turns his masked face back towards Castiel. The two criminals walk steadily away in the direction of Castiel’s precinct, their footsteps perfectly in time. “I’d say we’re on a first name basis, now that you’ve accepted my little gifts, wouldn’t you?”

“Only if I can call you by _your_ name,” Castiel shoots back, quick as a whip—but it only makes the man laugh.

“You can call me later, Detective.” There’s a teasing, flirtatious lilt to the man’s voice that sends a shiver down Castiel’s spine and sets an anger burning in the pit of his stomach, all at once. “But for now, as much as I’d love to stay and flirt, I’ve got other shit to deal with. I do hope you like your gifts, though,” he adds on, and for once, it seems as though he’s being genuine. “I went to a lot of trouble to find them, to try and smooth things over between us. I don’t like having you hate me—it’s not a reaction I commonly get after saving someone’s life, if I’m honest.”

Castiel watches him for a long few moments, eyes narrowed, trying to figure out what to say. Trying to figure out just how he feels about this whole insane situation. Because no matter what else this man has done, and how much Castiel dislikes his misuse of his powers…

The fact remains that this man had saved his life, _and_ had gone to all the effort of tracking down his criminals for him.

Which is why Castiel holds his head high, looks the man in the eye, and says, loud enough for it to carry over the space between them:

“Thank you.”

The man holds his gaze, the two of them sharing a moment that feels electrically charged in the silence, and then he nods.

A moment later, he’s gone.

~

It’s hard to explain to his colleagues how he just so happened to turn up back at the precinct with his two collars that had gotten away, but Castiel manages it. These arrests are too important to mess up, so he makes sure that his explanation lines up, all while mentally (and begrudgingly) thanking the masked man.

For the next few weeks, the vigilante makes himself pretty scarce. There are small sighting here and there, of course, but no more than a glimpse, or evidence of his presence in the dazed criminals that are left behind, still wrapped up in the power of his voice. Castiel isn’t as worried about him using his powers against innocent victims, but he can’t help but still keep an eye out.

It’s habit, and, at this point… it’s also a bit of an obsession.

So the lack of sightings has been frustrating for Castiel, to say the least.

And then, one afternoon, a man walks into the station.

He’s tall and handsome, all green eyes and freckles and perfectly bowed lips that seem more than a little familiar. If Castiel had hooked up with him in the past, though, he definitely would have remembered, and so he’s left wondering if he’s imagining the familiarity as he admires the man from afar—

Until suddenly, he’s standing in front of Castiel’s desk.

“I, uh, can I help you?” he asks as he jerks out of his daze, clearing his throat and awkwardly shuffling papers around to make it seem like he’d actually been doing work, instead of just staring from across the room.

The guy grins, giving Castiel a quick wink that ties his insides into knots. “Hey, are you Detective Novak?” he asks, despite the fact that it’s clearly displayed on a nameplate on Castiel’s desk, seeming to enjoy the way Castiel’s name sits on his tongue. “My name’s Dean. I was told you’re looking for information on that vigilante guy—y’know, the one who can make people do stuff with his voice.”

Castiel’s interest is now doubly piqued, and he sets his papers aside, focusing his attention solely on Dean. “I am,” he confirms, and gestures to the chair opposite his desk. “Please, take a seat.”

Dean does just that, sinking into the chair like he belongs there, and there’s something about this man that seems oddly familiar and so captivating. With eyes like those, Castiel would surely have remembered them, but there’s something still niggling at the back of his mind.

He can’t focus on that right now, though—he has a job to do.

“So, Dean,” he says, taking out his notebook and thumbing the cap of his pen, poised and ready to take notes. “What can you tell me about this vigilante?”

~

It feels as though Castiel and Dean talk for hours.

Most of it is about the vigilante, and the things Dean has heard on the streets, the rumours of where he’s been and where he’s going next. For such a charming man, he sure has a lot of information, but after speaking to him for a little while, Castiel has no trouble understanding how easily Dean could pick up information here and there. The conversation between them flows so easily that he almost has to pinch himself, and when he’s not laughing at Dean’s sense of humour and dry, self-deprecating wit, he’s either amazed by the things he says, or totally captivated by the green eyes that he’s sure are going to be burned into his brain forever.

When their conversation finally draws to an end, and Dean bids him goodnight, Castiel’s notebook is full of notes about the vigilante, but it’s also full of notes about _Dean_ …

And it has his phone number scrawled into the margin, at Dean’s insistence. _Just in case I can help you out with anything_ , he had said before leaving. _But from what I’ve heard, Detective… he’s done a hell of a lot of good around the city. Just sayin’._

And as much as Castiel hates to admit it, Dean is right—it’s just slightly easier to swallow when it’s a man with gorgeous eyes and a voice like whiskey telling it to him.

When Castiel lies in bed that night, thoughts circling around and around in his head about the vigilante and _Dean_ and just what he’s going to do about all this…

Sleep is a long time coming.

~

The weeks pass, and with them Castiel gets a handful of sightings of the vigilante. A few quick encounters, a few glimpses from afar, but nothing that’s _enough_ to keep Castiel sated. His obsession with the vigilante has only grown since that day he’d met Dean—

And that’s _another_ thing. Now, not only does he have an obsession with the vigilante, his powers and his moral compass and the way he _flirted_ with Castiel at every opportunity—

Now he also has thoughts of Dean Winchester swirling around his head. His charm, his laugh, the spark in those green eyes. Every day, he hopes that he’ll see Dean walk back through the precinct doors, even if it’s not with news about the vigilante, even if it’s just to _talk_.

But so far, he hasn’t been back, and Castiel is determinedly _not_ going to call him unless it’s about work.

(He might have already programmed Dean’s number into his phone, but he stands by his self-imposed rule. Only for work, no matter how many times he’s stared at the number, no matter how many times he’s _thought_ about texting or calling Dean.)

And so, in an effort to distract himself from the loudness of his own thoughts, Castiel has thrown himself into his work. He’s made more arrests this month than he has in the last three put together, and even if they feel a little hollow, it’s worth it to know that he’s taking criminals off the street—and doing it _legally_.

Tonight, Castiel is out celebrating with his colleagues. Well, c _elebrating_ is a loose term for it, considering he’d much rather be at home figuring out the leads for his next case, but he didn’t have the heart to turn them down. So here he is. Pleasantly buzzed, watching a few of his friends do karaoke, and trying not to notice how attractive the bartender is, but that his eyes are _just_ the wrong shade of green.

Eventually, as he starts to come down from his slightly drunken high, it all gets to be a little too much. It’s been a good night, but now he needs to tap out, for his own sake. “I’m heading home,” he tells Charlie and Garth, the two who _aren’t_ up onstage making fools of themselves. They pout and gently try to get him to stay, but it must be clear that he’s done, because eventually they give up and say goodnight.

Outside is cold, and for a few seconds, Castiel just stands outside and embraces it. It goes a long way towards clearing his head, especially since the air is fresh and clean and it’s so much quieter out here.

It’d be quicker to get home by calling a cab or an Uber, but tonight, Castiel feels like walking. It’s only twenty minutes to his apartment from here, and he could use the exercise considering how much time he’s spent sitting at his desk this week, so he heads off with the last of his few beers buzzing in his head.

For a long time, the only sounds he hears are the scuff of his shoes on the pavement, the occasional car going past, and a siren somewhere far off in the distance.

And then he hears the yelling.

It’s coming from up ahead, and instantly, the lingering remainders of Castiel’s buzz fade away. He’s in full police-alert mode, fingers twitching towards a gun that isn’t there, and holy shit, this could be dangerous.

But he’s never been one to let that stop him.

Castiel digs his feet against the pavement and takes off in the direction of the shouting, turning up one alley and then cutting across into another, until he finds the source of the commotion.

There are three men in the middle of the alleyway. Two of them are wearing masks, with only the eyes and mouth cut out, and the third man is pinned back against the rough brick of the alley wall. Silvery steel glints in the faint glow of the ambient streetlights, pressed too close to the third man’s throat as he spits blood and draws in a handful of wheezing breaths.

“Give us your fucking wallet,” the man with the knife growls, pressing it forward until it’s nicking at skin and staining the edge of the blade red. Castiel’s heart is hammering in his chest—he has no weapon, no plan, just sheer stupidity and a dedication to justice, and he’s not sure that that will be enough to carry him through his unscathed.

In the end, he hesitates a moment too long.

Or perhaps it’s just long enough.

“Put the knife down.”

The voice is more than familiar to Castiel. Even though the words aren’t directed at him, they’re still laced with enough power the he feels their effect. Almost immediately, his muscles relax, his fight or flight reaction ebbing away, and Castiel has to fight to shake off some of the daze.

The attackers aren’t so lucky—the vigilante’s voice catches them both completely off guard, and they go still, their arms falling back to their sides. The one holding the knife opens his fingers automatically, and the blade falls to the ground.

Castiel moves forward at the same time that the vigilante drops to the ground in the alleyway, and for a moment, they lock eyes.

His mind could be playing tricks on him, but this is the closest he’s ever been to the man, and Castiel swears… in the low light, his eyes look almost _green_.

“Fancy meeting you here, Detective,” the vigilante quips. Castiel’s heart double-beats in his chest.

And then a number of things happen in very quick succession.

The man who had been pressed up against the wall starts to move, but it’s not to call for help, or to make a run for it, or even just to slump to the ground in shock. No, he reaches for his waist, beneath his jacket, and Castiel realises what’s about to happen just a second too late.

“No!” he shouts, but he’s too far away, not fast enough. All he can do is watch in horror as the man’s hand reappears, fingers wrapped tightly around the grip of a gun that lifts to point unwaveringly at the vigilante.

The gun goes off.

The vigilante takes a staggering step back, then crumples to his knees.

Castiel’s ears are ringing.

It feels like he’s moving through molasses as he runs. The man with the gun takes off, spooked by Castiel’s presence, and Castiel isn’t fast enough to catch him. Even then, that’s not where his priorities lie, not right now.

His whole world has narrowed down to where the vigilante is lying crumpled on the ground, hand pressed against his chest and teeth gritted in pain as a pool of blood slowly spreads out from underneath his shoulder. _He’s not dead, he’s not dead,_ Castiel tells himself.

 _Yet_ , his mind replies unhelpfully, and he shoves the thought away as he falls to his knees beside the man. “Where did the bullet hit you?” he demands. His gaze rakes over the vigilante’s face, twisted in pain, and just for a second, they lock eyes.

 _Green_.

“Here,” the man rasps, and his voice sounds noticeably differe. Usually, it’s deeper, resonating with some underlying tone that must denote his power, but right now it just sounds normal. Scared.

_Familiar?_

Castiel’s hand reflexively flexes against his shoulder, both of them stained crimson even in the low light of the alleyway. “ _Fuck_ , it hurts,” he groans on a harsh exhale, then chuckles tightly. “Guess I’m lucky that dude was a shitty shot, huh?”

Castiel’s heart judders in his chest. He’s been trained for so many different situations, but now that he’s face-to-face with the vigilante he’s been tracking for so many months, the man who started off as a nemesis and somehow, somewhere along the line, became an ally…

What does he do?

“Cas,” the man says, and there’s a strain in his voice that pulls Castiel back to reality. “I know… you’re having an existential crisis and all… but someone had to have heard that gunshot. I don’t… really wanna get arrested tonight.”

Of course—if police show up and find him dressed like the vigilante, sitting next to two stupefied criminals, no number of bullet wounds or Castiel’s defence will be enough to keep him from the retribution of the law. A month ago, Castiel would have been fine with that, but now that he’s faced with the decision, he’s not so sure.

“I have to be able to trust you,” he tells the vigilante quietly, even as he presses his hand down over the man’s, taking over the role of keeping pressure on the wound. The crimson-stained hand falls away, and the man lets out a pained grunt.

For a long moment, they watch each other—neither of them moving, neither of them speaking.

And then, with the hand stained with blood, the vigilante slowly reaches up, grabs the top of his hood, and pulls it off.

His brown hair sticks up in all directions, and there’s a pained twist to his features (with a healthy dose of fear, as well) but that’s not what Castiel is drawn to.

No, he’s drawn to the man’s eyes, so green and so familiar because he’s seen them before.

“Dean,” he breathes, his eyes wide with shock.

Dean gives him a weak smile as he awkwardly shoves his hood into his jacket pocket with his good hand. “Surprise!” he jokes, the delivery falling more than flat.

_I should have seen this coming._

“It’s always been you? All along?” Castiel asks, and it’s a stupid question, but he can’t help himself. He’s thought about both of them, both Dean and the vigilante, for so long, and now that he has to reconcile them both together…

It will take some getting used to.

“Yeah,” Dean rasps, letting his head rest back against the ground. “Ever since the night I saved your life. Pretty poetic, huh?”

Castiel ignores that—he can’t let himself focus on that right now, not when he has Dean in front of him with a bullet wound through his shoulder, and a moral dilemma resting heavily on his shoulders.

But instead of considering his decision— _Stay? Leave? Call for backup?_ —Castiel blurts out the one question that’s been circling round and round in his head.

“Why did you come see me at the station?”

That earns him a quiet huff of amusement from Dean, before those green eyes fix him with a gentle, sincere gaze. “Because I like you, Castiel,” he says quietly. “You’re determined, but you’re also kind. The more I ran into you and the more I learned about you, the more I liked you. I couldn’t resist getting a chance to meet you properly—you’d never have treated me that way if you’d known I was the _vigilante_ you’d been chasing for so long.”

Castiel’s fingers flex against Dean’s wound, but he forces his hand to still again when it causes Dean to wince. “You’re exactly that,” he points out, his voice thick and chest tight. “A vigilante. Why shouldn’t I just leave you for the police to arrest?”

And then something entirely new occurs to him—something he should have thought of from the beginning. “If you can control people, why haven’t you ordered me to save you?”

Dean exhales through his nose, long and slow, then quirks the corner of his mouth upwards in a smile that’s just a little bit sad.

“I don’t want to do that, Cas,” he says, his words quiet. “Force you into doing something just because of my power. Not to you, not ever, and you _know_ that. And I… I hope that’s why you’re not going to leave me. Because you know, deep down, that I’m a good person.” His throat bobs as he swallows, and when he speaks next, his voice is thick with emotion. “I really like you, and I think you could really like me too, if you’d just give me a chance.”

 _I already really like you_ , Castiel can’t help but think to himself, and in that moment, he makes up his mind.

Dean is watching him with half-lidded eyes, and the pain and exhaustion must certainly be getting to him now. It makes Castiel’s heart ache to see him like this, and he reaches for Dean’s hand, pressing it back against his wound. “Press down there for a second,” he orders, and for a moment, Dean’s gaze clouds with confusion.

When Castiel strips off his jacket and his t-shirt and starts tearing the shirt into a long strip to serve as a makeshift bandage, however, it must sink in, because Dean huffs out a chuckle. “Sexy,” he jokes weakly, lifting his head an inch off the ground and making a point of watching Castiel with a half-smile. “Of all the times I imagined you gettin’ naked, I’ve gotta say, none of ‘em were like this.”

“Very funny, Dean,” Castiel mutters drily, fixing him with a look that is partly unimpressed but coloured with just a hint of amusement. “I prefer it if you didn’t bleed out before we even make it to my house. It’s not that far, but I don’t trust you not to do something stupid, so I have to take every precaution.”

And that earns him a _proper_ laugh from Dean, one that shakes his body and makes him groan in pain afterwards. “Sorry,” Castiel apologises gently as he starts to wrap his torn-up t-shirt around Dean’s shoulder. It’s nice to know that he can make Dean laugh, but it’s definitely not worth it at the price of causing him pain.

Dean shakes his head. “’S fine, Cas. It’s a good distraction—and you’re right, I do a lot of stupid stuff. Gotta have someone around to keep me breathing, that’s for sure.”

Castiel secures the makeshift bandage, then reaches for his jacket once more, pulling it on and zipping it back up. “There you go,” he says. “Do you want my help getting up?”

He sits back on his heels as Dean tries to lift himself up, attempting to prop himself up on the elbow of his good arm, but it must be too much strain for him, because after a few seconds Dean collapses back against the pavement, his teeth gritted in pain.

“Here, it’s okay,” Castiel tells him, shifting so that he can slide his hands under Dean’s shoulders and carefully help him up into a sitting position. From everything that Castiel knows about him, Dean isn’t one to ask for help lightly, but there’s no denying that right now, he needs it.

For a few moments, they just stay there, Dean sitting on the pavement heaving in ragged breaths, and Castiel crouched by his side. “Let me know when you’re ready to move,” he says quietly—and then they hear the sound of sirens in the distance, far away for now but drawing steadily closer.

Those sirens might not be for them, but that’s not a chance that Castiel is willing to take. If Dean is found in his vigilante costume, bullet wound or not, the law will not be kind to him.

“On second thoughts,” he mutters, “that might be our cue to leave.”

Dean jerkily nods his agreement, sweat beading on his brow, and together they manage to coordinate their efforts until Dean is standing, his good arm slung over Castiel’s shoulders and most of his body weight leaning on Castiel. “Fuck, it hurts,” he groans, and Castiel hushes him gently.

“I know,” he murmurs. “It’s not far to my place, okay? We’ll get you cleaned up and sorted out.”

There’s no way they can go to the hospital—even though Castiel is a detective, he might not have any sway with the officers who come to ask why Dean has a bullet wound in his shoulder. Besides, it seems to have been clean, through and through. He’s got enough medical response training to be able to deal with that.

“Thanks, Cas.” Dean’s voice is tight with pain, but there’s sincerity and gratitude layered heavily beneath it, and he bumps his head gently against Castiel’s in a show of affection that warms Castiel’s heart. All the times Dean had flirted with him, both as himself and as the vigilante…

No. He can’t let himself think about that right now. Currently, his priority needs to be getting Dean’s wound clean and looked after, and once all that is done…

Then _maybe_. But he’s not letting himself get his hopes up, not just yet.

The sirens are closer now. “Come on, let’s get out of here,” he says to Dean, who nods shakily.

Together, they start to walk, Castiel holding Dean up as they slowly disappear into the darkness.

~

Dean, as it turns out, is not a good patient.

He insists on trying to help Castiel with everything, from cleaning his wound to properly bandaging it, and flirts all the way through. The strained quality to his voice suggests to Castiel that he’s using it as a coping mechanism while they wait for the painkillers to kick in, but he’s pretty sure that Dean would be flirting with him even if there _weren’t_ a bullet hole in his shoulder, so he just smiles and flirts back as much as he’s able, until Dean’s shoulder is properly dressed and he’s limp and boneless against the bed.

“How are you feeling?”

Dean inhales, considering his answer, then sighs out his breath. “Okay,” he decides. “It still hurts, but it’s a… far away pain. Whatever you gave me, it’s working.”

It’s the strongest stuff Castiel has on hand—he hadn’t been sure that it would be enough for Dean’s wound, but it seems to be working. “Good,” he says, then shifts so that he’s sitting a little more securely on the bed, instead of just perching on the edge. “Let me know if you’d like a bath, or food, or anything I can get you.”

Dean hums, then nods, turning his head so that he can make eye contact with Castiel. He looks drowsy, and tired, and Castiel is _so_ glad that he’d just happened to be in that alley at the right time.

“Okay, Cas,” Dean says quietly. “I’ll let you know. And Cas?”

He reaches out, his fingers curling around Castiel’s wrist. For a moment, his lips move, as though he’s figuring out what to say—and then he shifts his grip, gently interlacing their fingers together. There’s a question in his eyes as he looks back up at Castiel: _is this okay?_

It’s perfect.

Castiel smiles and gives Dean’s hand a little squeeze, his smile widening as he watches Dean relax. “Thank you,” Dean says, quiet and sincere. “I really like you, y’know? And I didn’t think you were gonna like me, bein’ a cop and all. But now…” He shuffles a little closer, grinning as he drops his voice to a whisper, as though he’s imparting some great secret. “I think you like me back, Cas. I’m not a detective, but that’s my hunch.”

Castiel snorts in amusement and shakes his head fondly. “You might be onto something there,” he acknowledges with a smile, and Dean’s grin grows impossibly wider.

“Knew it,” he mutters to himself.

“Alright, you menace.” Castiel gives his hand one more squeeze. “You need to get some rest now. I’ll be here if you need anything.”

It’s clear that Dean is trying his hardest to stay awake, but his eyes are slowly drooping until they slide closed all the way. “Not fair,” he mutters. “I’m s’posed to be the one who can tell people to do things.”

“Too bad,” Castiel tells him teasingly. “Now you get a taste of your own medicine.”

Dean opens his eyes just enough to level a playful glare at Castiel, then closes them again. “Alright, bossy,” he quips, but there’s a curve to his lips that Castiel knows means he’s joking. “It is… definitely time to sleep. I’ll see you in the morning?”

He looks so peaceful and sleepy, and Castiel’s heart melts. _Fuck, I’m so far gone already_.

“I’ll be here,” he confirms, ready to settle in for a long night of watching over the very same vigilante he’s been chasing for so long, and has finally found—even if it wasn’t for the reason he was expecting.

“See you in the morning, Dean.”

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a comment or kudos if you liked this!
> 
> You can find me on tumblr [here](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com), and subscribe to me on ao3 [here](https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltnhalo). Also, come join us at the [Profound Bond discord server](https://discord.gg/profoundbond), a home to Destiel fans from all walks of life <3


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